


Bars, Brothers and Winchester Luck

by CrowHorse1, Dreamsnake



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Brotherly Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Sick Dean Winchester, Some Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-06
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-10-28 08:48:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10827870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrowHorse1/pseuds/CrowHorse1, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dreamsnake/pseuds/Dreamsnake
Summary: It was only a bar fight... right?With Winchester luck, is anything ever that simple?If you can't find the monster that's taking little kids and you don't know what's wrong with your brother... How bad are things going to get?





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

"Give me one friggin' reason why we can't have a beer?"

Dean sounds affronted.

Sam could give him several reasons, but he settles for the most obvious. He gestures at the run-down shack. "That's not a bar, Dean. That's a bacteria infested dive."

His brother rolls his eyes so dramatically that his head rolls around a little too. He jabs a finger at the sign rising from the grass verge on rickety wooden legs. 'Cold be.r' it proclaims in faded but once vibrant letters.

Everything about the place just gives Sam an uneasy feeling inside. His mind races to find an excuse, but the excuses slide away like slippery catfish.

Dean reinforces his argument. "Cold beer, Sammy. I don't care about the decor."

Sam's gaze drifts over the motley collection of battered vehicles on the dirt parking lot. He stares for inspiration at the sign and notes that someone has shot two eyes and a nose into the letter 'o' with a precision that makes him hope he, or she, is not a regular visitor. He doesn't point out this vandalism to Dean, as he feels his brother may regard it as a challenge.

The heat presses down on them and the dull drone of insects aggravates the headache starting at the back of Sam's eyes. Dean is still waiting. He waggles his eyebrows expectantly, gives a persuasive little grin that makes his face light up with mischief.

Sam sighs. The argument is already lost and he knows it. Nothing he can say will be a good enough reason to keep Dean from his beer, and it is a suffocating evening, heavy with heat and humidity. He relents with poor grace and follows his brother inside.

The bar is dim, dusty and stifling, but at least the beer is cold. Sam settles for a bottle because even in the dim light he can see the lip marks and fingerprints of the last few customers on the cloudy glasses. Dean isn't so fussy and for once Sam is glad his brother has a whiskey chaser, at least it neutralises some of the germs.

An hour and twenty minutes, several beers, two pool games and a bit of light-weight flirting later, Sam's gut instinct is proved to be correct and Dean is lying on his back on the smashed remains of a greasy table. Sam stands over him protectively, his fists ready, but the main antagonist has already left, departure being a more sensible option than arrest. Sam feels this may be a prudent time for them to leave too, but Dean doesn't look like he's getting up any time soon. This is a cause for concern because Dean is not one to lie down in the middle of a fight, but Sam figures he went down pretty hard and he's probably winded.

The bar tender is looking pissed and although Sam could take him, it's too hot to bother. Instead he prods Dean none too gently with his toe.

"Dean?"

Dean blinks slowly up at him and grimaces as he rolls up onto one elbow. He shakes his head, wipes at the bright trickle of blood from his nose and begrudgingly allows Sam to hoist him to his feet. Once upright, he immediately bats Sam's hands away because... well, because he's Dean, and only the certainty of imminent death would see him accepting Sam's help in front of a bar full of onlookers. He weaves his unsteady way to the bright rectangle that is the opening to the outside world and heads resolutely to the Impala.

Sam follows, really wanting to check that he's okay but resigned to waiting until they get clear of the area. At least Dean's on his own two feet and he drops into the driver's seat with a determined air, so it appears he's recovered well enough to drive. 

By the time they cross the county line, Sam is breathing easier and feels reassured enough to slip into a mild bitch face. He raises his voice over the music and asks the inevitable question in a rather testy tone.

"What was that back there? Didn't occur to you to just ask if she was with someone before you hit on her?"

Dean casts a quick glance in his direction and fixes his gaze back on the steadily unfurling ribbon of road.

"I guess?" He sounds a bit vague and not too interested.

"Dude!" Sam is exasperated and it shows. "I'm tired of getting punched 'cause you can't control your base instincts."

Dean looks his way again but keeps his peace and Sam is left to stew in the passenger seat until his brother hits the brake and pulls without preamble into the parking lot of a shabby looking motel.

"Nice choice," says Sam in a sarcastic undertone that is lost on his brother, who is already half out of the driver's door.

By the time Sam has unfolded himself and stretched the stiffness out of his joints, Dean is scooping his duffle out of the back seat and heading with a determined gait towards room 104. Sam catches up with him as he pushes his way through the doorway. A flake of tired paint peels off and flutters down to the old boards like a dying butterfly and Sam wrinkles his nose at both the mental image and the stale odor of the room as it assaults his nostrils.

"Great choice man," he mutters.

"You said that already," Dean points out mildly as he throws his duffle at the foot of the nearest bed and heads for the bathroom. There's a few minutes of running water and then he emerges and flops down on his bed on his ass.

"If you're not gonna shower…?" Sam asks hopefully.

"Knock yourself out dude." Dean seems to be studying his boots with a distracted air and waves off Sam's request to check him over. "'M okay."

"You were out for a minute or two. Let me check your head at least."

"Just winded, Sammy. Go get your shower; the mother-hen routine will keep."

Tired, sticky with heat and slightly aggrieved about the possibility that one of his teeth is chipped, Sam complies, giving the air conditioning unit a hefty kick with his boot on the way past. It hiccups, coughs and emits a feeble stream of luke-warm air.

By the time he's showered, Dean is asleep and any chance of a triage is long gone. Sam sighs as he regards the recumbent form of his brother. Dean is lying face-down across the width of the bed as though he just couldn't be bothered to get into bed properly. One knee is drawn up slightly, the other socked foot protrudes into thin air. Due to his height, this means his head is only just on the mattress on the other side of the bed and one arm dangles down to the floor. Sam shudders, his inner child horrified. No matter how many monsters adult Sam has slaughtered, his inner child still regards the floor beneath the life raft of the bed as the habitat of sharks and alligators. He seriously debates the merits of lifting Dean's arm back onto the bed, but can't see any practical way this can be done without nearly dislocating his shoulder or sustaining injury himself. Waking a sleeping Dean can be a risky business.

In the end he gives up and drops into his own bed with a sigh. He flips the light switch and the room is plunged into semi-darkness. Suddenly the imaginary sharks seem all too real and he carefully draws up his long legs and makes sure nothing is in harm's way.

Dean sighs in his sleep and mutters something in an anxious tone. Sam listens, but all that follows is a soft snore. Eventually he drifts off himself despite the clammy heat and dreams unquiet dreams of hurt brothers and dirty beer glasses.

He's startled but not really surprised when the sound of the bathroom door awakens him. Dean is retching into the toilet and Sam feels the onset of dread unfurling in his stomach. He's absolutely positive his brother hasn't consumed enough beer for that to be the reason.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!  
> Love to hear from you.


	2. Chapter 2

Dawn lightens the sky with a pale, almost peach-hued light. It looks as though it should be cooler, but looks can be deceiving. Sam is sure the temperature hasn't dropped all night; he is equally sure that as soon as the sun has risen it will be even hotter than yesterday.

He pulls his sweat soaked t-shirt away from his torso and flaps it about to create a draft, but the slight reduction in body temperature is reversed by the increase caused by the movement. He gives up after a few wafts, releases the hem and the material immediately sticks to his skin again. He's sweating profusely and it makes him wonder, not for the first time in hot weather, whether it might be a good idea to cut his hair. Of course he will never actually do this, it would be the ultimate throwing in of the towel, in the ring of a lifetime argument about hair and its acceptable length.

It's been a long night and Sam has spent much of it perched on the end of his bed, grimacing sympathetically at the sounds coming from the bathroom. He has offered assistance on several occasions and been waved off on an equal number. Dean is still, apparently, fine.

After the latest bout of being fine, Dean has crawled onto his bed and is currently sleeping, or at least his eyes are closed. Sam would like to close his eyes too, but the molten copper rim of the sun is already rising over the horizon. Checkout isn't that far off and if Dean is still feeling fine they will soon be in the Impala and moving on. If Dean actually admits to being sick, then Sam would prefer it if they move to a motel with air conditioning, even if it does dent the credit card more than is absolutely necessary.

He pokes listlessly at the keyboard of the laptop, slowly rotating screens with information about bacteria-ridden beer lines, e-coli from bad burgers, sunstroke and so on. Without any intention of doing so, he dozes off and is shocked awake when Dean's hand descends on his shoulder.

"E-coli!" Dean says with disbelief. "Jeez Sam, I puke once or twice and you got me in the ground already."

Sam points out that the puking has been a lot more frequent than once or twice. Because he's tired and worried he also points out that he didn't want to drink beer at that particular bar yesterday.

Dean looks at him as though he's grown a second head. "Dude, whaddya talking about? There are thousands of bars like that and we've been in nearly every one of 'em. 'Sides alcohol is antiseptic."

Sam attempts to explain that beer is not antiseptic, but it's a half-hearted explanation because Dean already knows this and is just being contrary. Dean ignores him anyway as he dismisses all of Sam's research.

"Don't have e-coli… no burgers yesterday, remember."

Sam does remember. In fact, now he thinks about it, he can't recall Dean eating anything much at all since the pancakes and maple syrup stack the previous morning.

"Sunstroke?" Dean squints at him as though he's gone insane and closes the laptop with a decisive click. It's not that Dean is immune to sunstroke; he's as susceptible as the next guy. But Dean burns in strong sunlight. Dress it up how you like, that's the truth of it. Dean has fairer skin than Sam and if he spends too long in the sun he goes red and has even been known to blister. Dean is very aware of this fact and prefers to avoid a red and peeling face as it detracts from his chick magnetism. If anything, today he looks unnaturally sallow.

Sam sighs gustily, gives up on the home-grown diagnosis and fights his way through gritty eyed exhaustion by sticking his head under the cold tap and swallowing an energy drink. It's sickly and tastes of purple grape, but by the time he dumps his bag in the Impala he's awake and ready to roll; after all it's not like he hasn't had plenty of practice when it comes to sleepless nights.

Dean looks like crap, which means he looks ill but better than some people on a really good day. He's putting on an unconvincing show for Sam's benefit and taps the wheel and sings tunelessly along to a few songs before he runs out of steam and turns the music off. Sam isn't fooled by any of it but he keeps his mouth shut, for now.

They head north. This is a good thing because it becomes cooler by tiny increments; it's also a bad thing because it means Dean has convinced himself he's still fine and they can push on to the site of the recent child disappearances in Mustang Canyon.

The Impala's air conditioning has decided not to work today, so they crank the windows fully down and Sam leans an elbow out into the warm rush of air, enjoys the feel of it funnelling into his armpit and tries not to worry about his brother, or think too much about how the heat is building up between the back of his thighs and the seat.

They're a couple of hours short of their destination when Dean pulls over for gas.

"Nice diner," Sam says in a hopeful tone. He's had some warm bottled water and stale trail mix since the energy drink that morning and he wants to stretch his legs and escape from the monotony of the road for a while.

Dean parks the fuel nozzle back in the pump and agrees without much enthusiasm that he could use some coffee. He looks tired, with bruise colored shadows forming beneath his eyes. They both need a good night's sleep and Sam plays the little brother card without shame. He doesn’t use it often, and in all fairness he usually uses it to benefit Dean rather than himself, but hey, it’s no good having an ace up your sleeve if you never throw it on the table.

"Let's stay at a decent motel tonight dude. I’m beat.” He rubs his eyes and blinks at Dean. “Could use some sleep.”

Whatever argument was on the tip of Dean's tongue disintegrates before it is uttered. Sam is tired and needs a comfy bed and air conditioning, and what Sam needs, Dean will attempt to provide, because being a big brother is engraved on his soul.

The diner lives up to Sam’s expectations and he wolfs down a meal that would feed a small family while Dean listlessly chews at some dry toast.

It’s early and the diner is empty apart from a waitress filling salt shakers over by the counter. Sam drops some coins in the old fashioned juke box and punches a random selection of buttons. The choice of songs makes Dean go squinty-eyed with disgust, but the music is loud and it means they can talk about the case without any danger of being overheard.

So Sam pushes his empty plate away and flips open the laptop. It isn’t many minutes before his fingers stop their dance across the keyboard and he nudges Dean with his knee to get his attention. Dean stops studying the grains of sugar on the plastic table and raises an eyebrow.

“There’s been another one. Kid aged four, taken from his garden. Parents say the fence is 6 foot high and the gate was locked.”

Dean’s nostrils pinch in. “So that’s six now, all kids, all under ten.”

“Yeah.” Sam rotates the laptop so Dean can see the screen. “One little girl, Jenny Haden, was in her bedroom. The security camera doesn’t show anything going into the room, or coming out. All of them were taken in the evening.”

“That sucks,” Dean observes. They both hate it when monsters hurt people, but they hate it even more when it’s kids involved. He swallows the last chunk of toast, gags a bit and takes a quick mouthful of black coffee, waving off Sam’s concerned query. “Let’s get back on the road, we’ll get in after dark so we can get set up and start asking round first thing tomorrow.” He slams a palm on the table with a frown. “Gank this friggin’ thing, ‘fore it takes anyone else’s kid.”

Sam smiles at the startled waitress and makes sure he leaves a decent tip and in no time at all they’re back on the road. Dean flicks on the lights and they chase the white beam up the road towards Mustang Canyon.

They’re about half way there, ACDC are on the way to hell and Sam is in a comfortably drowsy state when Dean slams on the brakes and pulls up on the side of the road. Sam is still bracing himself on the dashboard and the dust from their abrupt halt is rising in the beam of the headlights and Dean is already out of the car and doubled over. The toast and coffee are not travelling any further with them.

Sam gets out in time for the spitting and retching and offers a bottle of water. Dean sips and rinses and spits some more and heads back to the Impala without a word.

“Hey,” says Sam. “I’ll take it from here.”

Dean pauses and actually considers the offer before he says “No,” and that frightens Sam more than he wants to admit to himself.

Sam spends the next few miles working himself up to the point where he blurts out an over-thought question. “Guess you’re still not feeling so good, huh?” He wants to slap himself the minute it spills out of his mouth.

Dean’s eyebrow does that thing it does when he’s amazed at Sam’s stupidity. “Wow Sammy,” he says in a deeply sarcastic tone. “Bet they didn’t know what’d hit ‘em at Stanford.”

Sam opens his mouth and shuts it again. He keeps it shut until they reach Mustang Canyon.


	3. Chapter 3

Sam sleeps well and being Sam, he feels guilty about it. The room, after all, was really for Dean's benefit and he's not sure if his brother slept at all. It's a fact that he wasn't woken by any nocturnal noises, but that might simply mean Dean is being even stealthier than he normally is when he's trying to hide something.

  
By the time he awakens fully, Dean is pushing his way back into the room with coffee and a breakfast burrito. He says he's already eaten, but Sam suspects that this is a lie and this is Dean's way of avoiding any confrontation over his consumption of breakfast, or lack of it. With no evidence to support this theory, Sam's forced to let it go and sits and sips his coffee and chews the tough burrito while Dean gets dressed in the suit he wears when he's impersonating an FBI agent.

  
Dean hates the suit with a passion. Today he seems to hate it even more than usual and struggles with the button on the pants and with his tie until Sam almost offers to help. Almost. The whole getting dressed thing seems to wear Dean out and he sits on the side of his bed while Sam gets ready.

  
Sam thinks his brother looks sick and wonders how on earth they're going to fight monsters if Dean can't fight a suit jacket and win. Of course, he knows that if anyone can take on a monster when they should really be in bed, or possibly be in the hospital, it's Dean, so he tries not to worry too much.

  
Dean does look distinctly uncomfortable. He keeps pulling at his collar and his belt and when he puts on his shoes a little frown creases the middle of his forehead.

  
"You okay?" Sam asks. He doesn't expect a negative answer, but he puts the question out there anyway, just in case.

  
"Peachy." Dean scoops up the keys and marches out to the Impala with his shoulders squared. Sam follows, feeling like his head is about to explode with the effort of trying to get Dean to admit something is wrong.

.

  
They spend a fair portion of the day interviewing grieving parents, interrogating local law officers and gathering every scrap of information they can from the public library. They accumulate a surprising amount of evidence, mainly due to all the disappearances being recent and in a relatively small area.

  
Dean is increasingly quiet and Sam is sure he's limping a little, but he's trying his best to hide it. A butterfly flutter of anxiety starts up in Sam's stomach and he's very glad they've only one more call to make, on the old lady who lives next door to one of the victims. Then they can head back to the motel and try to work out just what it is they're up against.

  
The old lady is, understandably, upset. Sam takes the lead and uses his most gentle approach; he accurately determines that the black suits are intimidating and so they stay on the porch while he asks a few careful questions.

  
She didn't see anything, it seems, apart from a girl walking past and pausing outside the property for a short time. She knows the girl; it's young Carolynn, from the library. Sam nods wisely; they've met Carolynn. She's young and timid and tired-looking and doesn't really fit the monster profile. Apparently she has a friend who lives in the street, so there's every reason for her to be passing by. For all that, he notes it down; he's learnt a long time ago not to discount anything in this job.

  
Sam's gentle demeanor is convincing enough that the old lady begins to reminisce about the town back in its heyday and it's about then that Sam feels Dean brush up against his sleeve. It's only a fleeting contact, there and gone again, but Dean has highly developed spatial awareness and does not accidentally bump into doors, or brush against his brother's arm, without a good reason.

  
Sam turns to him casually, expecting an eye roll and a tilt of the head, indicating that Dean has heard enough and wants out. But his brother is not even looking at him; he has his gaze fixed on the white painted wall of the house and is blinking slowly. Sam focusses on the sheen of sweat on his brother's upper lip and his slightly open mouth and realizes with a shock that Dean is about to pass out.

  
He reacts quickly, jamming a hand into his pocket and making his elbow stick out in a seemingly casual way. It makes contact with Dean's arm and his brother leans into it slightly and somehow stitches a grim smile onto his face as Sam makes their farewells. Seconds later he has a firm hold of Dean's arm and is pretending to show him something on his cell as they make their way back to the Impala.

  
Dean's face has gone waxy and ridiculously pale. With every step Sam finds he is holding up more of his brother's weight and by the time they get to the Impala he has to lean Dean against the side just to get the door open.

The door squawks and Dean sags into the passenger seat. Sam sees his eyes roll up and catches hold of the front of his jacket and stops him going flat on his back along the length of the seat. He gives a quick tug, gets Dean's head between his knees and slaps his face gently.

  
His brother moans, which means he's well out of it, and it takes a while but eventually he comes back around enough for Sam to sit him up and pull off his jacket. The white shirt is soaking with sweat but his brother is shivering and Sam isn't taking any more bullshit.

  
"We're going back to the motel. Now. And I'm gonna check you over, properly. And if I can't find out what's wrong, we're going to the hospital. You got that, dude?"

  
Dean shuts his eyes and folds himself into the seat. He has his arms wrapped around his middle and he doesn't bother to argue.

The butterflies of anxiety in Sam's gut turn into writhing snakes. Mustang Canyon is a small town and it's a fair drive to the nearest hospital.

  
By the time they get back to the motel, Dean's eyes are open and he's straightened up in the seat, although he still has one arm wrapped around his midriff. He doesn't look any less pale but his gaze is steady enough.

"You doing okay over there?" Sam asks.

"Yeah. Sorry man."

Sam isn't sure why his brother is sorry. He can't think what to say, so he pats him on the knee in a reassuring way and earns himself a scowl.

"'M not a dog, Sam."

"Yeah, right," says Sam. "You can train a dog."

As soon as they're back in the motel room, Dean suffers the thorough check Sam wanted to give him two days earlier. Sam checks for just about everything he can think of, but apart from a fading mark on his brother's face and an average medley of bruises on his back, he can't find anything. Dean's temperature is up, but not dangerously so and he still feels nauseous, but not all the time.

Sam makes a guess. "Bruised kidneys?"

"Nah." Dean assures him he's pissing just fine and has had bruised kidneys often enough to know what they feel like. Sam is standing out of his line of sight when he delivers this announcement, so Dean doesn't see him wince and the look on his face when he looks at the bruises.

Sam would like to mention that this is just one of the reasons why the hunting lifestyle is not a good idea, but he knows this is not the time. Instead he wipes the pity from his face and hands over some anti-inflammatories and makes sure Dean has lots of water to drink. He wonders if perhaps it is a bad burger or something after all. Food poisoning can be a nasty business. He resolves that if Dean isn't any better by the morning, they're going to a clinic, whether Dean wants to go or not.

  
They go through the hunt evidence with Dean slouched on the bed and Sam folded up on the end. One by one all the normal supernatural suspects are crossed off the list. It seems they're facing something new, or at least new to them.

An hour or so before dusk, Dean swings his legs to the floor and reaches for his jeans.

Sam's bitch face appears. "Seriously! Are you kidding me?"

"Job to do, Sammy." Dean's jaw is set. "Whatever it is, it hunts at dusk, y'know that."

Sam is about to protest when the police scanner goes off. Another kid is missing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love to hear from you. :)


	4. Chapter 4

“It’s early,” Sam notes. “All the other kids were taken after dusk.”

He's watching Dean out of the corner of his eye, because if Dean falters, sways, or does anything at all to suggest he's not feeling at least five hundred percent better than he was earlier, then Sam is going to do whatever he has to do to leave him behind. He hopes it doesn't come to that; he's not sure it would even be possible to prevent his brother going out, short of knocking him the hell out or slipping him a horse-sized tranquillizer instead of an anti-inflammatory. In the circumstances, bearing in mind the fact that he isn't sure what’s actually wrong with Dean, neither option is desirable.

“Mebbe it knows we’re on to it?” Dean is already dressed in his normal attire. He slips his feet into his boots with a small hum of satisfaction. It’s no secret that Dean likes his formal shoes even less than his monkey suit, but the hum and his expression of relief attracts Sam’s attention.

The offending shoes are still at the foot of the bed where Dean dropped them earlier. Sam recalls his brother was limping slightly and casts a quick glance at the footwear. To his surprise, there is a red stain inside the heel of one of the shoes. Sam isn’t sure why a badly fitting shoe makes him feel uneasy, but it does, as though there’s some minute scrap of relevant information filed away in the encyclopedia in his head. Now Sam has a high IQ and he’s more than capable of thinking about several things at once, but even when you’re known to be a nerd, things have priorities when it comes to brain time. Right now his priorities are worrying about Dean being sick, the missing kids, ganking the unknown nasty that took them and worrying about Dean being sick. Shoes will have to wait.

They pocket their fake badges and head out to the Impala. Sam announces he’s driving and for once Dean doesn’t argue. Sam isn’t fooled into thinking his brother is being uncharacteristically reasonable. Dean is reckless, but he’s reckless with his own well-being, not that of others. He knows he’s sick and he knows he passed out earlier. He isn’t reckless enough to risk depleting his reserves any more than he has to, not when there’s a monster to kill and some kids to save.

It turns out the latest victim is just two years of age and has been snatched from his bedroom in a locked house with his parents in the next room. There are no signs of entry, or exit, just a missing child.

The local cops recognize the Winchesters as the officers who called on them earlier and greet them with obvious relief. The Sherriff confides in Sam that he’s relieved they’re already on site; this is out of his league and he didn’t expect officers to arrive until tomorrow evening at the earliest. Sam assures him that the disappearances are of the highest priority and lets Dean know that the real FBI are on the way; the Winchesters’ time to solve the case is strictly limited.

They leave the strobe lights of the police cruisers behind them and move out in gradually increasing circles in the gathering darkness. The local law will not be looking out here, or at least not yet, not until it’s far too late. They’re too involved with searching the property for signs of entry. Unlike the Winchesters, they have no experience in dealing with things that can walk through walls as though they aren't there.

The victim’s home is at the edge of town and they’re just past the outer limit of the built-up area when the beam of Dean’s torch illuminates a tuft of brown fur caught on some wire fencing. Experience tells them it’s not from a cat or dog or cattle. It looks like it's been there for a while and it's coarse and long and smells rank in the way only the undead and supernatural nasties do; the nearest thing they’ve ever seen to it is the hair on a Wendigo.

Behind them lie the lights of the town; the police cruisers are out of sight now but the red flicker of their lights bounces off the humid cloud. On the far side of the wire there’s darkness; the torchlight finds only dry dust and brown grass as they cast up and down the fence line. They find a big mess in the dust, as though something thrashed around on the floor; there are more tufts of hair nearby on the wire. Something with narrow, humanoid feet and long claws has approached the wire, crossed over...and then boot tracks lead away from the scuffles on the dust, heading in the direction of town.

“Looks like some kind of shifter. You figure this is where it came in?” Sam runs his finger around one of the indentations in the ground. Despite its narrow width, the foot has sunk much further into the dust than either Dean’s or his own boot tracks, so it belongs to something with considerable bulk.

Dean answers him from a few feet further on. “Yeah. And this is where it went out again.”

The tracks lead back to the fence and then head out beyond it into the night.

There's no way of getting the Impala up to the fence or beyond, so Dean holds onto one of the dried-out fence posts and steps up and over the wire. “C’mon.” He sets off at a slow jog with Sam at his heels.

After a few minutes they climb up a small rise in the landscape. Dean pauses at the top; his breathing is much faster than it should be for someone of his age and general level of fitness and Sam doesn't like the way his face is ghost pale in the backwash of light from the torch. He hopes they haven't got much further to go, but they might be lucky because there's a dim light about a mile away.

They shroud the torch heavily so there's just enough light to see where they're stepping and make their way cautiously across the dry ground. It's an adrenaline-fueled walk because if the monster is home they have a fight on their hands, Dean isn’t running on all cylinders and they can only hope they've the right weapons with them. As a little frosting on the cake, there's also the possibility of stepping on something that will bite, or simply being shot for trespassing.

They move in slowly. As they get closer they can see there's a big old double-wide trailer parked next to a wooden barn. Dean takes a deep breath and seems to force his body into full-on hunter mode. His slightly uneven gait evens out and suddenly he’s in front and gliding through the shadows towards the trailer and Sam wonders how Dean does that, make it all look so easy, as though he can just put his own sickness on hold and get the job done.

Dean gets up close to the dimly lit window and peers inside through a tiny gap in the blind. He turns to Sam and shrugs his shoulders. Nothing visible through the narrow aperture, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t anything inside.

Sam is halfway across to him when something detaches itself from the dark bulk of the barn and rushes at them with superhuman speed. It slams into Sam like a freight train and he falls and rolls to lessen the impact and remembers to tuck his chin down.

Dean snarls something and leaps forwards. He can’t shoot it because Sam’s still in the line of fire, so there's a brief tussle, a startled yelp that doesn't sound like Dean and then the thing takes off into the darkness. At the same moment the trailer door is thrown open. Outlined against the dim light is a creature from Hell. It’s tall and kind of spindly in the limbs but Sam already knows first-hand that its friend is heavy and insanely strong. At first glance he’d almost think ‘wendigo’ but it’s more animalistic in the features and they already know they’re probably dealing with something that shifts.

There’s no time to think any more because it leaps forwards; it picks Dean up as though he’s a small child and slams him up against the side of the trailer. Sam is up on his knees and slices at it with his silver knife. There’s a shriek, so at least silver hurts it, but he’d really rather have just shot the motherfucker and been done with it, but anything aimed at the monster will be aimed into the trailer too and there might be something else in there, like a two year old kid for instance. Dean’s boot slams into the creature’s kneecap, or where its kneecap would be if it is has one and it retreats for now, raising dust as it heads for the barn at a rapid rate of knots.

Sam picks himself up off the floor and notices Dean is on his feet and has an arm back around his middle again. He sincerely hopes that Dean’s expression is not the one he normally uses when he gets that little catch in his breathing, because that would mean they are really in trouble.

The barn door is ajar now and there’s a light inside. By the time the Winchesters make it to the doorway the creatures are long gone and the barn is filled with a high pitched wailing that goes straight to the core of Sam’s brain and starts to melt it.

Dean shoulders him out of the way and heads towards the sound and Sam sees it is a small figure, spread-eagled on the floor of the barn with its mouth wide open. The two year old kid. He’s not tied up and there’s no blood and Dean’s expression of relief when he gives the tiny boy a quick check over suggests he’s not injured either. He is, however, extremely upset and Sam wonders what on earth two rough-edged hunters are going to do with a hysterical toddler who’s going blue for lack of oxygen and is stretched out like a rigid starfish.

Then Dean scoops the kid up off the floor and plants him against his chest; he wraps his arms around him tight and starts to rock him, and all the time this stream of nonsense is pouring out of his mouth. It’s a stream of nonsense that stirs an old memory in Sam’s head, although the voice is a lot deeper than it used to be. Sam suddenly feels a little winded, because with everything that’s happened in their lives, he somehow forgot that actually his smart ass brother knows just what to do with a starfish shaped toddler, because he used to have to deal with Sam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope to hear if you like this story?


	5. Chapter 5

 

"What?” Dean squints suspiciously at his brother.

Sam schools his expression quickly into one of neutrality and turns away to greet the sheriff.

“Oh thank God.” The officer pushes back his headwear and mops at his red and perspiring brow with a large handkerchief. He turns to bellow over his shoulder. “Hey Mandy, get the Coops on the cell, we’ve got their kid! Looks like the little fella is okay.”

There’s a flurry of activity and Sam and Dean and the toddler are whisked away in an ATV under a bright banner of flashing red lights. Sam feels as though a modern day Santa Claus may travel like this, and when they arrive back at the Coops’ house it's clear that for them at least all their Christmases have arrived at once.

Dean climbs out of the ATV and gently persuades the chubby fingers to release their limpet-like grasp of his t-shirt. The toddler is sleepy and promptly sticks one thumb in his mouth, waving a small arm in the direction of Mrs Coops. She takes him with tears in her eyes and kisses Dean on the cheek. Mr Coops shakes his hand vigorously and delivers a hand clasp and a shoulder slap for Sam. Then the sheriff, one of his deputies and a random onlooker also want to shake their hands and Mandy is looking at Dean as though he’s all her heroes rolled into one.

Dean is starting to look a bit like a rabbit caught in the headlights and they both know that all this attention is a very bad thing for people who want to remain as incognito as possible. It’s unfortunate, but unavoidable in this instance, as they could hardly continue to hunt with a small starfish attached to Dean’s chest. They explain they’re following a lead in a nearby town and beat a hasty retreat to the Impala.

Sam peers at the map, wishing the interior light was a bit brighter, but Dean will not change the worn and cloudy bulb cover until he can get an authentic piece of ribbed plastic or whatever it is that houses the bulb. So Sam gets one stage closer to eye strain and drags a finger across the plotted lines on the crumpled paper. After some muttering and squinting he announces that the tracks lead off from the barn in a north-westerly direction. If the nasties keep going for three miles or so they will hit another road, one that looks accessible by Impala. This means that it’s also accessible by other vehicles and as they appear to be dealing with some form of shifter, it’s reasonable to assume that they may have a back-up vehicle stashed at not too great a distance from the barn. There were no other kids, or signs of them, at the barn and the Winchesters suspect it’s a temporary holding place only.

Sam taps frantically at the laptop while Dean drives. He enters all the information they have into a database he’s compiling, but doesn’t have time to consider it much because they are already on the road he saw on the map. Dean is swearing and swerving around potholes and loose bits of landscape and Sam suddenly remembers that in all the excitement he forgot to keep hold of the keys.

As it happens, it’s only a few minutes before they reach a spot nearly in a direct line from the barn. Sure enough, on the dry verge there’s the tracks of a large vehicle with all-terrain tires, all mixed with narrow shifter prints and boot prints. The vehicle has left a scuff on the verge and a scattering of stone chippings behind it as it departed in a northerly direction. Sam recalls that the road ends a few hundred yards further on where it rejoins the blacktop. Where the vehicle has gone from there is anybody’s guess. It seems they’re back to asking around.

They make a quick diversion and take five minutes at the motel to grab their gear before they hit the road at speed. It’s unlikely the shifters will be back in Mustang Canyon any time soon, but there are three or four small towns in a reasonable radius and the shifters must have a permanent base somewhere. The sooner they can start making enquiries, the more chance there is of hopefully finding someone else alive.  
Sam drives towards the nearest town, his brother sprawled casually in the passenger seat. Dean has not commented on his driving once, his knee is not bouncing with suppressed adrenaline and he has not put anything loud in the tape player. Experience tells Sam that whenever his brother is this still and quiet it’s a sign that something is seriously amiss. Sam still doesn’t ask the obvious question, because he’s sure he will still only get an ‘I’m fine’ response, but that doesn’t stop him monitoring Dean out of the corner of his eye. Eventually Dean gets fed up of it and punches him on the arm with a snarl of “buy a picture willya.”

Sam sighs in his most long-suffering way and wishes his brother was easier to deal with, but then he wouldn’t be Dean and Sam wouldn’t know what to do with a brother who exhibited reasonable behavior and uncharacteristic calmness. He may even gank him by accident, believing him to be some kind of doppelganger.

They call briefly into a 24-hour gas station about half way between Mustang Canyon and the next town. Sam dashes inside to see if the cashier knows of a large, well shod truck. After all, if the truck has been coming and going from the barn then it’s quite possible they routinely stop here for gas.

Dean waits for a few minutes and then exits the Impala with some impatience. His baby is fast, but even she can only make up so much ground. He peers through the cut-price liquor posters on the shop windows but can’t see his brother, so he trails wearily inside. Sam’s eagle eye is momentarily absent, so Dean lets his shoulders slump and his feet drag a little and admits to himself that he’s beat and hurting and needs to lie down for a long time.

The shop is empty apart from a bored looking cashier. There’s a rest room in the back and Dean waits for approximately another thirty seconds in the stuffy silence, broken only by the rattle of the ceiling fan and the whoosh and grumble of vehicles passing on the road. He checks the clock on the wall behind the cash register, sighs and bangs on the restroom door with a deep boom of, “Hey! Sammy! Hurry the hell up.”

To his surprise the door drifts open. The restroom seems to be empty. Dean’s pulse picks up as he boots the stall door open. No-one. He leaves the stall door swinging and pushes his way back into the shop, then exits immediately through the back door that leads directly onto the parking lot at the rear.

“Sam!” His voice echoes in the empty space. No answer. Dean jogs hurriedly around the corner. The Impala stands in solitary glory on the deserted forecourt and a panicked swing of Dean’s head confirms that Sam is definitely still not in the shop. He goes back in anyway, with his blood turning rapidly to ice in his veins.

“Hey dude. You see my brother come through, he’s kinda tall, lotsa hair?”

“Sure.” The cashier is disinterested and tired. “He went in the restroom…”

Dean is about to say something both he and the cashier will regret, but the dull voice continues.

“He went out the back way, took off already in the truck. Guess you won’t have much problem catching up though.”

He inclines his head at the Impala, ignores Dean’s stricken look and points out the direction of travel with a bored finger. Dean considers snapping it off and feeding it to him, but frankly there isn’t the time. Instead he gets the description of the truck, a silver Dodge Ram, and throws himself at the Impala.

He drives like a man possessed and his heart thunders as quickly as the yellow markings in the middle of the road are inhaled by the Impala. Sam’s not answering his cell and there is no sign of a silver Dodge Ram in the sparse traffic or in the first small township he passes through. The traffic begins to thin out even more as the early hours slide by and Dean pulls over and tries to remember how to breathe properly. He has to accept that the shifters may have gone to ground. He needs to find someone who knows the truck, knows who drives it and where they come from, and that will have to wait until morning.

He’s operating in a fog caused by exhaustion and the stark terror that he won’t find his brother before something conclusive happens. It may already be too late. Shifters who customarily take small children may not have any use at all for a large sasquatch.

Dean takes down a good few slugs of whiskey, fast, in a vain attempt to ground himself. The burn in his raw throat is expected, the dragon on steroids belching fire around his gut is neither expected nor welcome. He doubles over the wheel for a few minutes, fingers clenched in the t-shirt stretched over his ribs. When he can breathe again, he wipes the reflexive tears away with his cuff and puts the Impala in ‘Drive’.

He drives up and down the stretch of highway between the small township and the gas station, checking every dusty dirt road that branches off. Time and again he levers himself out of the Impala and checks for those distinctive tread marks. Time and again he turns back to face the white beam of the Impala’s lights and drags his boots back to the driver’s seat.

On the last turn-off before the township Dean finds he can’t focus clearly on the tracks and he scrubs the torch lens clean with the hem of his t-shirt. The tracks are still fuzzy so he hunkers down for a closer look, but as his long frame folds something stabs violently at his abdomen and steals his breath as though he’s been sucker-punched in the solar plexus. The unexpectedness of it brings him to his knees. He sways there for a minute or two, holding onto his gut and trying to breathe through the pain until he thinks he has it under control. He gets up cautiously, breathing hard through his nose, but seconds later the whiskey makes an acrid reappearance. Suddenly the Impala looks impossibly far away and Dean wonders when it got so cold. He wants to lie down in the dust and close his eyes but some instinct tells him that if he does that, he just might not get back up again. And Sammy needs him.

So Dean grits his teeth and pushes himself step by step back to the Impala. He turns on the heater and drives a few hundred yards to park up outside the little store at the edge of the township. Then, for a brief time he lets his eyes close and slips into an uncomfortable darkness.

Dawn finds him slumped awkwardly against the door. He startles awake, groggy and confused and wondering what the hell is going on. A pleasant looking middle-aged woman is unlocking the small store. She smiles at him through the dusty windshield and calls out that she’ll be open for the day in five minutes.

Dean tries to get himself together and pulls his jacket collar up because he’s still so goddamned cold. Every trip of his pulse, every mouthful of air reminds him that Sam is missing and it’s his fault. Someone took his little brother from right under his nose.

He heads into the store. The warm air is full of the smell of freshly brewing coffee and Dean sees, to his surprise, that it’s more than just a store. As well as the usual collection of essentials for nearby residents and travelers alike, there’s a small area with a couple of comfy looking couches and shelves loaded with books and magazines and a few plastic kids’ toys. Dog-eared signs welcome people to take a break, have a chat, relax with a book. Dean thinks that Sam would love this shop, and that reminds him he’s here for information.

The woman is as pleasant as she looks and is sorry she doesn’t remember seeing a Dodge Ram. Old Howard will be in for coffee soon though, so Dean should wait because Old Howard knows everyone and everything.

Dean takes this on board with some difficulty because the woman’s face keeps going in and out of focus and her voice is distorted, as though he’s listening to her from the bottom of a swimming pool. She is smiling at him in a kindly way and appears to be asking if he’s alright. Dean does his best and gives her a quick flicker of a smile and the ghost of a wink, but she’s having none of it and somehow he ends up seated on one of the comfortable couches with a glass of ice-cold water in his hand.

 It’s not like him to volunteer information or accept help from strangers, but there doesn’t seem any point in denying that he’s been sick for a while now.

“Do you remember when you last ate somethin’ sweetie?” Her brown eyes are full of concern and Dean actually can’t remember, so he shrugs helplessly and stays put as instructed because apparently she keeps some cans of bone broth in stock especially for Old Howard.

The water helps steady the fast flutter of his pulse and when a warm mug of something that smells meaty and delicious is placed in his hand Dean takes a cautious sip. It tastes as good as it smells as it slides down his throat and settles in a warm pool in his gut. By the time he’s downed a second mug, his hearing has made it back out of the swimming pool and his vision has sharpened well enough that he guesses the bewhiskered old man shuffling through the screen door is Old Howard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit goes to cmr2014 (Fanfiction) for the suggestion of bone broth. I had no idea it could be bought in a can and therefore both Dean and I are indebted. Hopefully it will keep Dean on his feet, more or less, for a while longer.
> 
> The little shop that is more than just a shop is based on a little cafe that had just that sort of set up in one corner. Couches, toys, library books. Remote communities creating a warm and friendly meeting space for locals and travelers. It was some years ago and it has gone now, but I've never forgotten it. The Wind Dog cafe, Yell, Shetland Isles.
> 
> Thanks for reading. Drop me a line, love to hear from you.


	6. Chapter 6

__

 

_Several hours earlier…_

Sam pulls up on the forecourt of the gas station with a small scuff of the tires that earns him a sharp look from Dean. His brother doesn’t comment, mainly because Sam is already out of the driver’s seat and his long legs are eating up the distance as he jogs to the shop door.

The cashier is already serving a beefy looking guy, so Sam decides to grab a handful of anti-inflammatories and snacks while he’s waiting. He’s just filled his hands with packets of potato chips and meds when the beefy guy scoops up his change and heads for the back door of the shop. He has his cell phone pressed to one ear and as he draws level with Sam he stops dead in his tracks.

“Well now, listen to that willya?” He smiles at Sam in a disarming way and hits the speaker button. The sound of small children playing reaches Sam’s ears.

“Kids, huh?” Sam says easily, trying to edge his way past to the counter. But beefy guy blocks his way and his smile disappears fast.

“Do what I say, and nothin’ is gonna happen to those kids. One wrong move and I cut the call and one of ‘em dies, right now.” A large thumb is pressing lightly on the disconnect button and Sam freezes.

“Now, you’re gonna put them chips down and we’re gonna leave, nice and quiet like. Y’hear me?”

Sam nods and lets the chips fall back into the wire discount basket by his side. The pack of meds follows them. He’s armed, he knows the exits and there are numerous items in the shop that can be used as weapons if need be, but that big thumb is quivering and Sam daren’t use any of the options open to him, not when a little kid’s life is at stake.

Beefy guy inclines his head in the direction of the back door and they leave without any fuss. A silver Dodge Ram is parked outside and it’s no surprise that it’s fitted with some hefty looking all-terrain tires.

A young, smart-dressed man steps out of the vehicle with a startled expletive. He’s the opposite of beefy guy in every way, looks and sounds like a white collar city lawyer. The expression on his face suggests he recognizes Sam, which pretty much identifies him as the smaller of the shifters.

Sam spreads ‘em in the time honored fashion and the younger man removes all of Sam’s weapons and tosses them into a lock-box in the back of the truck. Ten seconds later, Sam is in the back seat, wrists and ankles secured with cable ties, and they are pulling onto the highway.

Beefy guy turns to him and it’s very noticeable that he doesn’t look worried, not at all.

“Now this is how it’s gonna work. You sit there and be a good boy. If I don’t check in every five minutes on my cell, a kid dies, so we both know you’re gonna behave.”

“Let’s just kill him.” The younger man turns in the passenger seat and sends a venomous glare in Sam’s direction.

Beefy guy sighs. “Lay off, Eddie. Slow your roll boy. This one might be useful yet.”

Eddie is clearly fuming and his rage overflows to the point where he reaches back and delivers a vicious punch to Sam’s face. It’s supernaturally powered and Sam’s head smacks into the glass of the side window. He pulls himself back upright, blinking away stars and wishing he could wipe the thick trickle of blood from his nose.

Beefy guy shakes his head, looking at Eddie as though he’s a little disappointed in such uncontrolled behavior. “We need to get clear of the area,” he says calmly. “There’s two of ‘em, remember?”

Eddie sneers. “The other one isn’t worth much. It’s not like he’s going to stage a rescue mission or anything, is it?”

Sam’s chin comes up, partly in anger because how dare this creature say his brother isn’t worth much, and partly in defiance because of course Dean will come to the rescue. Eddie reads the expression and the body language and laughs softly. He eyes Sam with disdain and turns back to face the front.

“You’re right,” he says to beefy guy. “This is meant to be an auspicious occasion, right Johnny?”

Johnny frowns at him.

“If by that, y’mean happy, yeah. No use lettin’ a couple of dumb hunters spoil it.”

There’s nothing to do in the rear seat apart from testing the security of the cable ties and checking out all possible exits and weapons and Sam has already done that. He shuffles around a bit to keep his circulation going and worries about Dean and finds that, at last, he has time to put all the facts together and come up with a good guess at what Eddie and Johnny are, when they’re not pretending to be human. It fits, apart from the fact that the kids are apparently still alive.

After a while Johnny spots headlights weaving in and out of the sparse traffic behind them. They’re moving at speed and he suspects they just might belong to the ’67 Impala he saw on the forecourt before he snatched Sam. He douses the lights and floors the gas pedal. It seems he can see perfectly well in the dark without the benefit of headlights and they flit like a large silver ghost along the highway and past the first small township.

About twenty miles after the town, it seems the shifters’ luck is running out. The Ram stutters a few times and Johnny pulls over behind some scrub just past a huge billboard. He mutters something about the engine overheating again and Eddie swears a blue streak and says he should’ve got it fixed before now, and points out it’s only two miles to the turn-off. Johnny tells him to can it; they’ll just have to wait until it cools down.

Sam sits and waits, his nerves pinging as loudly as the cooling metal, but there’s no sign of Dean or the Impala.

.

_Now…_

Old Howard has hair and a beard to rival an elderly Leonardo da Vinci. Dean knows this because an untitled copy of a supposed self-portrait hung in one of the many schools they passed through in pursuit of their transient lifestyle. At the time he thought the subject looked like something they hunted, even did some research, with the result that he was the only student to remember the man's name. This caused his teacher's eyes to narrow as she made a rapid reassessment of her stereotype-driven conclusions about the smart ass slouching insolently in his leather jacket. Dean did not inform her that learning the names of obscure creatures and classical Latin in your spare time sharpens your recall of unusual names well beyond the capabilities of the average cheerleader obsessed teenager.

Old Howard’s resemblance to the genius of the Renaissance era appears to be a physical one only, although he is as sharp as a tack. He ambles into the doorway, pauses for a moment to move the wad of chewing tobacco to one cheek and directs a stream of dark brown liquid into the dust outside the store.

He greets the storekeeper, whose name appears to be Marge, and after the exchange of a few pleasantries she directs him in Dean’s direction. Dean hoists himself to his feet in time to take the offered handshake, registers calloused and paper-dry skin beneath his fingertips and straightens his back beneath the power of Old Howard’s piercing blue gaze.

He asks about the Dodge Ram and Old Howard only knows of a red one, but says he has a pal with a tire shop over in Thomas Ridge. If anyone locally has been supplying good quality tires, he’s your man.

Old Howard shuffles into the back room to make a ‘phone call and Dean stocks up with some bottles of water and meds. He hands over some dollars and thanks Marge and she smiles at him and calls him ‘sweetie’ again, which makes him feel kind of warm and sad all at the same time.

A few minutes later, Dean is back in the Impala and heading up the road. He still feels like crap and his boots are uncomfortable as though his feet have grown overnight, but when he opens up the paper sack and finds a can of bone broth underneath the bottles of water, it gives him a little boost in the way only an unexpected kindness from a stranger can.

.

When first light sends a grey wash of color over the landscape, Johnny spends a few minutes poking around under the hood and announces they can go. Sam pleads a desperate need to piss, which isn’t a lie, and they cut the cable ties and remind him that it only takes one ‘phone call.

Sam stands behind the billboard, with everything above the knee out of sight of the shifters, and takes a leak. Someone has drawn a huge penis in the dust encrusted on the picture and Sam leaves a little graffiti of his own, the lettering as large as he can make it without moving his feet. Even so, Eddie gets suspicious and appears around the billboard just as Sam is doing up his flies. He glares at the lurid advertisement and the dust drawn graffiti.

“What’s that say?”

Sam squints and shrugs. “I dunno man,” he says in a bored tone. “I don’t speak Spanish.”

Fortunately it appears Eddie doesn’t speak Spanish himself, or maybe he just thinks Sam is an idiot, because the writing on the billboard is clearly not in Spanish. He gives Sam a mean look and lets it go and they head back to the truck.

Sam is dutifully holding out his wrists for the cable ties when he happens to look straight into Johnny’s eyes. He realizes his reflection is upside down and suddenly everything falls into place. There’s nothing to lose, so he just states it calmly.

“You’re an Aswang.”

Johnny chews slowly on his gum, nods. “Been called that. Been called a few other things too.”

 _“Yeah, baby killing murdering sonsabitches!”_ Dean’s voice is so loud in Sam’s head that for a second he thinks his brother is right beside him. But Dean isn’t there. He’s sick, maybe even dying, somewhere Sam can’t help him. Sam swallows that thought quickly because if he goes there, he’s done for, but Eddie must have seen the distress on his face because he smirks.

“Your brother isn’t going to save you.”

Sam wonders how the hell Eddie knows they're brothers.

“You have the same stink.” Eddie answers the unspoken question written in Sam’s raised eyebrow. He wrinkles his nose dramatically in disgust. “Though at least _you_ don’t smell half-dead.” He pauses for effect and smiles in a sardonic way. “You didn’t know he’s dying? How unfortunate. No wonder hunters have a reputation for being morons.”

He turns his back in disdain and Sam swallows hard against the bile rising from his gut and wonders if he just wrote Dean’s death sentence on the billboard.

 _“Dean,”_ he thinks desperately, trying to communicate with his brother through force of will alone. _“Leave me. Go to the hospital… please man, just go.”_

Of course, his brother doesn’t hear and Sam knows he wouldn’t listen anyway, so he sits awkwardly in the rear seat, with nothing but the turmoil of his thoughts and his gradually swelling hands to keep him company.

.

Dean calls at a small roadside diner as he leaves the little town and asks about the Ram. The waitress hasn’t seen it, but both she and the chef ask if Dean is okay. Dean feels he's already shown enough weakness for a lifetime, brushes off their concern with a muttered excuse about bad beer and heads rapidly towards Thomas Ridge.

His headlong rush is interrupted briefly by a bad bout of nausea, but he manages to get through it with the mugs of broth still in residence in his gut. He feels distinctly easier when he loosens his belt and undoes the top button of his jeans, although why he’s feeling bloated when he hasn’t eaten for days is beyond him.

Sammy is still missing, so Dean puts everything else to the back of his mind and drives on. Not far out of town he passes a huge billboard. He’s feeling a bit muzzy, so he’s a few feet past it when the large scrawl of the graffiti registers in his brain. The Impala's brakes squeal and she fishtails a little on the dry surface before he slams her into reverse.

He stops in a personal dust cloud and stares at the large letters with a prickle of tears at the back of his eyes.

FRATER. HAEC VIA. II.

Only Sam could have left that message. Dean swallows the burn of relief and pride as he floors the gas.

“Way to go, Sammy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Really appreciate the kudos. :)


	7. Chapter 7

 

 

The numbers on the odometer click around as the Impala rumbles forwards past numerous road signs that warn in ominous colors of major construction work ahead. Just short of the two miles indicated by Sam’s dust graffiti, and thankfully a mile or so before the road construction, there’s a road leading off to the right.

Dean pulls up and gets out. He doesn’t even need to bend over to see the distinctive tire tracks where the dry dirt has drifted across the road entrance. He gives up brief thanks to anyone who might be listening for his good eyesight. Hunkering down is not something he wants to try again any time soon.

The side road leads away up an incline and disappears over a ridge. It looks in decent repair for a side road and the map shows that it strikes out across an empty wasteland until it eventually peters out. There seem to be two properties out in the wasteland; the first one is just over the rise and the other is marked up on the map as derelict.

Dean takes a couple of minutes to make sure he has all the right gear stashed about his person or easily to hand on the passenger seat, which in this case means a selection of pretty much everything, as he isn’t quite sure what they’re up against. He figures that if he takes a silver knife and silver bullets for his Colt, an iron machete, some holy water, a pocket full of salt and the Ithaca 37 sawn-off loaded with cartridges that are filled with a mix of iron and silver ball he’s got most things covered. He hopes.

He drinks down half a bottle of warm water to re-hydrate and points the Impala at the rise. He keeps her revs down and creeps along, hoping the grumble of the big cylinders is lost in the background noise of traffic passing on the road behind him and the racket of heavy machinery from the roadworks. He stops between the two banks where the road cuts through the top of the little ridge and walks forwards cautiously until he can look down into the shallow valley on the other side.

The road sweeps down and veers off to the right, disappearing like an undulating snake into the heat haze in the distance. Just over the top of the ridge, a track cuts off from the road and sweeps down into the valley to the left and into the yard of the first property shown on the map. The solid looking timber house is backed into the stony slope below him, and Dean notes with a twinge of dismay that there’s not a stick of cover in sight. Not a bush or a tree or even a blade of grass. He can probably get about half way down the slope, taking cover behind large rocks, but after that the slope is smooth and clear right up to the rear wall of the building.

The end of a silver vehicle, parked mainly out of Dean’s sight at the front of the house, looks suspiciously like a Dodge Ram, but even without that, some sixth sense tells Dean that his brother is down there. He just hopes he’s still alive.

He sidles slowly down the slope, ghosting between the large boulders and staying in the dark shadows cast by the glaring sun. As anticipated, he gets about half way down. There are no entrances at the back of the house but he’s close enough that the sound of little kids playing and squealing drifts up over the heat-baked rock. At least some of the missing kids are still alive; he has no idea if there are more than two shifters in the property and he has to plan as though Sam is in there too. He can’t even begin to contemplate a situation where his brother is not alive and inside the house, so he shuts the lid on that box of potential anguish and concentrates on the logistics of getting the nasties where he wants them and not injuring any innocent parties.

.

Sam has spent the first part of the morning loosening his bindings; thankfully the cable ties have been replaced by old rope and he’s twisted and wriggled until his wrists are sore and he’s pretty sure he can slip a hand free when he has the opportunity to do so.

He’s overjoyed to see that all the missing kids seem to be in good health and are playing happily in the next room, not old enough to realize they’re locked securely in the house. He’s somewhat less happy to see Carolynn is watching over them.

He wonders at first if perhaps the young woman is a hostage of some kind, but when Eddie arrives their relationship is only too obvious and Sam remembers the rest of the lore about Aswangs and how their partners turn into one too. He has a sickening feeling that the ‘auspicious occasion’ just might be a wedding of some kind and that the kids are the wedding feast.

He’s trying to put this nauseating fact to the back of his mind, so he can concentrate on getting himself and the kids out of there, when a tingle runs up his spine and he just knows that Dean is nearby. The feeling persists for some time like an itch deep under his skin and then gradually fades away; Sam is left hoping that his brother has some awesome rescue plan and that he’s going to put it into action before the wedding feast.

.

By the time Dean makes it back up to the Impala, he knows he has maybe one more trip like that in him and no more. It’s coming up towards late morning and the heat is bouncing off the rocks in almost palpable waves, but Dean is cold through to his bones. He’s so cold he wants to put his jacket on and maybe even a hoodie too, but he knows this would be a huge mistake and so he clenches his teeth against the chills and gets on with his preparations.

It’s going to have to be a quick, full-on assault. It’s a one shot only kind of deal and he can no longer think past the point where Sam is freed and the kids are saved. Anything beyond that seems unreal, as though he won’t really be involved in it any more.

Along with all the things in the Impala’s trunk that he shouldn’t have, there are a few items he most definitely shouldn’t have. He combines a few of these and staggers manfully back down the slope with a weird but stealthy gait reminiscent of a vulture side-stepping towards its prey. A careful bit of digging later and he’s rigged up some det cord and is back up at the Impala with adrenaline pumping through his veins.

.

Sam watches Carolynn as she hums happily and sets up a few vases of flowers. If it wasn’t for the kids he’d feel bad for her, because he just knows Dean is coming. One way or another his big brother will come bursting in and save the day. Sam’s mind protests in a plaintive voice that Dean is really sick, but his heart refuses to listen. He leaves them to fight it out and makes sure his bindings are free. He’s spotted a few potential weapons and he’s not waiting around to be rescued like a damsel in distress. It’s time to take the fight to the Aswangs.

It’s at that precise moment that there is an almighty boom and the clatter and smash of falling rocks striking the roof and the rear wall of the house. Sam launches to his feet and mows Carolynn down like a juggernaut as he heads for the front door.

.

The Impala crawls forwards quietly. Dean eases her nose over the lip at the track entrance. He's as ready as he's ever going to be and as soon as the slope above the house explodes with a dull thud, he hits the gas and sends his baby hurtling down the slope, doing his best to outrun the small shower of rocks careening down towards the house.

Two men burst out of the house as the Impala skids sideways into the yard. Dean puts the wheel over hard and lets the slide continue until the front wing of the Impala collides with the rippling, changing form of the larger man. Dean gets a round into him from his Colt as the half human/half lynx face flashes past the open side window, then straightens the Impala up enough to fire twice with the sawn-off into the chest of the thinner weasel/man.

He's out of the Impala as it's still shuddering to a standstill in a cloud of dust. Three fast steps have him over the sprawled figure, who is howling with rage and pain as the silver and iron shot does its job. Dean raises the machete and brings it down hard and the noise stops abruptly.

"Dean!"

As there's usually just the two of them and because they lead a perilous existence, Sam tends to shout Dean’s name quite often. Dean knows this particular bellow means something is about to jump him and he moves fast, fast enough that the strike from behind fails to land with lethal force. Dean's not at the top of his game today though, so he gets thrown across the yard anyway and the machete spins out of his hand.

He's barely come to a standstill when a slender figure runs past him and lands on her knees next to the weasel faced creature. She's wailing with grief, but by the time Dean gets up on one elbow, she's stopped and is backing off with the sort of look you get on your face when you're waking up from a nightmare. Her hand flies up over her mouth and she bursts into tears.

Dean can hear something going on behind the bulk of the Impala and he tries to get up. It's not happening and he flops back in the dust with a groan. When he rolls his head to the side instead he gets a view underneath the Impala of Sam grappling with the lynx guy, then there's a grunt and a head rolls clear and Dean is very pleased to see it has light brown fur rather than shaggy brown hair.

Seconds later Sam is at his side and his big hands are pawing all over Dean. Dean is already having a very bad day and for some reason this gets him riled beyond all reason. He slaps Sam's hands away, ignores the puppy dog eyes and scowls.

"Get me up."

Sam huffs and looks like he is seriously considering leaving Dean lying there. Dean really hopes he doesn't, because he is reasonably sure he can't get up by himself.

Fortunately Sam's concern for his brother exceeds his irritation at his unreasonable behavior and he takes hold of Dean's shoulders and tugs him impatiently up to a sitting position. He has half his attention on Carolynn and so he misses the involuntary twist of his brother's face as he folds in half. Sam continues in an upwards direction and already has his surprisingly docile sibling under the armpits and onto his feet before he realizes that Dean is not helping with the increase in altitude, not at all.

For just a second, as Dean's feet are planted on the floor, he sort of falls into Sam. And then he’s cursing and pushing himself away and takes a quick step back to lean against the Impala.

"You okay there?" Sam frowns at him anxiously, but Dean waves it off and points at Carolynn.

"What's she doin' here?"

So Sam trots out a quick precis on Aswangs and wedding feasts and Dean looks at Carolynn as though he'd gank her, if he could stand up without the Impala for support.

It's about now that the little kids realize they are without adult supervision and the noise level from the house increases rapidly. It seems that dull booms, falling rocks and gunfire doesn't break through their brightly colored play bubble, but finding they can't reach the juice is a whole different ballgame.

Carolynn is becoming increasingly hysterical and it's very clear that she's been under some kind of mind control and is truly shocked to find herself basically a kidnap victim with some awful memories intact. The only thing that eventually gets through to her is the kids' distress.

Sam fetches them all out and sits them in the shade with lots of juice and a box of candy he finds on the kitchen worktop. He rather reluctantly leaves Carolynn in charge and she rises to the occasion and puts her own feelings on hold.

He has the corpses wrapped in tarpaulin in the Impala's back seat in record time.   Dean isn't looking pleased at this outcome but tries to help and generally gets in the way, until Sam snaps at him and he goes back to leaning up the door and looking sick.

It’s when Sam is making an anonymous call to the sheriff that he finally studies his brother's face properly and notices an unusual tinge of color to his skin. Everything falls into place with the impact of an ocean liner running aground. Every little clue suddenly adds up to a truly terrifying total and Sam cuts the sheriff's questions short because Dean needs the hospital, now.

He snaps his cell shut and tells Carolynn to stay put, but she's pointing to the Impala and Sam turns to see his brother sliding ever so slowly down the metal skin and into the dust.

"Dean! Shit! Don't do this now man, please."

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for taking time out of your day to read my scribblings. And those of you who leave a nice comment or a kudo, you are indeed awesome!


	8. Chapter 8

Sam has one of those moments when he moves so fast that time seems to freeze. He is on one knee and catching hold of his brother’s shoulders before Dean finishes his long, slow slide into the dirt.

“Dean!”

Dean’s eyes are half closed and he looks at Sam sleepily as though he’s wondering what all the fuss is about. The stubble on his cheeks stands out dark against skin that would be bleached of color, if it wasn’t for the worrying hue that Sam noted while he was making his call to the sheriff. Sam gets straight in there and lifts an eyelid and sure enough the whites of Dean’s eyes are stained with a creamy, almost yellow tinge. It’s startling next to the green irises and reminds Sam of something they hunted once in the woods of Washington State.

He eases Dean down onto his back and runs his hands quickly over his limbs and torso. It’s immediately obvious that his brother’s abdomen is far too distended for a man who hasn’t eaten anything substantial for days and when Sam pulls up the leg of his jeans, the lean legs are distinctly puffy.

His brother’s pulse is a weak flutter and his chest rises and falls in tiny movements under Sam’s hand as he draws in quick, shallow breaths through chalk white lips. There’s no question that Dean is on the verge of going into shock and Sam props his brother’s legs up on a rolled up sleeping bag and hopes his earlier diagnosis hasn’t come far too late.

“Dean?” Sam takes a deep breath, absently smooths the wrinkled t-shirt over his brother’s sternum and tries to calm his shaking hands. “Dean?” He insists, a little louder. His brother looks up at him, a little wrinkle of confusion appearing on his forehead.

“Sam? What’s goin’ on?” The frown deepens. Dean raises his head a little. “Get me up.”

“No.” Sam presses a palm gently against his brother’s chest. “Stay down for a couple of minutes, okay. Then I’ll get you in the Impala.”

Dean takes in Sam’s stressed and patently false smile, flicks his gaze to the Impala and lets his head drop back with a dull thunk. He eyes Sam suspiciously as though it’s all his fault.

“What’s up with me?”

“I’m not a doctor, Dean. Why didn’t you tell me how crappy you were feeling?”

Dean doesn’t answer, but his eyes turn towards the sound of the kids and then back to Sam’s face. Sam sighs.

“Okay,” he says softly, giving Dean’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “I’m going to get you to the hospital. Just give me two minutes.”

“Is, is he okay?” Carolynn is hovering over Sam’s shoulder. “He looks really sick.”

“Yeah, he’s sick.” Sam hears the snap in his own tone and cuts off the words before he can start flinging accusations around. Now isn’t the time and quite possibly Carolynn is not the correct target. He keeps a hand on Dean’s wrist and a sneaky finger on his pulse and peers up from under his hair at the young woman. “Might be a good time for you to tell me how you’re involved.”

Carolynn drags her gaze away from Dean and focusses on Sam with earnest blue eyes.

“I’m not sure what happened…” She realizes immediately from Sam’s expression that simply isn’t good enough. “I met this guy. He was nice, different from anyone round here. I kind of liked him y’know?” She casts a glance at the bloodstain and scuffed dirt where the weasel-faced Aswang was killed and shudders. “We started dating…” She runs a finger over her lips and shudders again. “Seems like the more time I spent with him, more I forgot about everything else.” Her eyes widen in shock as memories filter through the fog. “We were being mated, today… and the kids…” She bursts into tears again. “That’s awful, I love kids. I babysit half these kids.”

It makes sense, in a sick kind of way. Who better for a prospective mate than an impressionable young girl who can keep some little kids calm because they already know her? Sam can see the keen distress in her eyes; he’s a pretty good judge of character and he’s certain Carolynn is as much a victim as anyone else in this horrible mess.

He reaches up and takes hold of her forearm and tugs her down to his eye level. “Listen up, ‘cause this is what you’re going to do. You’re going to sit right here and take care of these little kids until the sheriff arrives. And when he gets here, you’re going to tell him you were fooled by this guy and ended up getting kidnapped and kept alive for babysitting. You don’t know why they wanted the kids… ransom maybe, who knows. You heard gunfire and you came outside and there was no-one there, just some bloodstains in the yard. You don’t know where the bad guys have gone and you didn’t see us. You get that?” He shakes her a little. “We were never here.”

Carolynn swallows hard and nods. “What were those things?”

“Aswangs.” Sam is slightly surprised he told her, but he’s not going to be around to offer counselling of any form and maybe she will cope better and get some form of closure if she knows what nearly happened to her. He kind of hopes so anyway.

Dean makes a small sound of protest as Carolynn stands up. Sam reads his expression easily and nods his agreement. He turns fierce eyes to her. “My brother says, you’re getting off easy considering what you nearly did. We hear anything else happens to those kids, or any others, we’ll be taking it personally.”

The threat in his words is clear and Carolynn blanches. She shakes her head vigorously. “It won’t. And I’m not going to tell anyone about you, I promise.”

She informs Sam where the nearest hospital is located; fortunately it’s in the opposite direction to her home town.

Sam would much rather Dean lay down in the Impala, but there’s the slight problem of the back seat already being occupied by tarpaulin wrapped corpses. He does really need his brother to stay awake, so perhaps it’s better for him to be in the front where Sam can keep an eye on him.

He raises Dean gently to a sitting position. His brother bites his lip and stares at the Impala’s tire with a fixed glare. Sam knows this type of fixed stare means Dean is in considerable pain and he lays a careful hand on his brother’s abdomen.

“It hurts here, right?”

Dean scowls at him and injects some venom into his tone. “Yeah, Sammy. It hurts. Now stop with the chick flick feely crap and get me in the friggin’ car.”

It’s probably a good thing, because it means Sam is irritated enough to lift him up and dump him on the front seat without too many careful maneuvers, which would probably have caused more pain in the long run anyway.

Dean swears under his breath and closes his eyes and Sam notes that he has a fine coating of dust on his eyelashes. For some reason that gets to Sam more than everything else that is clearly wrong and he steps away quickly and slams the door, drops a quick nod to Carolynn and settles himself in the driver’s seat.

.

Sam takes it easy until they’re off the bumpy track, then not so easy on the side road and downright floors it on the highway. Not for long though. There is a lengthy section of roadworks ahead. Fortunately the road is relatively empty and the workers have taken advantage of an early finish time. Sam has forgotten that it’s the start of a holiday weekend; neither monsters nor Winchesters adhere to public holidays.

As it’s so quiet, Sam takes the opportunity to stash the corpses in a large section of concrete pipe. He’ll have to get back to them before the end of the weekend and preferably before they start to stink, but at least it gives him a few hours grace to get his brother some help.

In the few minutes while Sam hides corpses, Dean slips closer to full-on unconsciousness. He’s slumped against the door when Sam gets back and it takes some time to rouse him back to a state of semi-awareness. From then on Sam keeps up a steady stream of questions. Dean is visibly irritated by the fuss and clearly wants to pass out, but at least he’s responding occasionally in a grumpy, growly voice and that’s about the best Sam can hope for in the circumstances. If it’s what he thinks it is, it’s nothing short of a miracle that Dean has kept going for so long.

Sam drives with one hand, the other constantly in contact with Dean's knee or forearm. He talks about anything and everything, whatever it takes to keep his brother's attention. Dean watches him with drowsy eyes, his responses becoming shorter and more confused as he gradually keels over until he’s resting against Sam’s arm. He sits there quietly, gawking sleepily at Sam’s profile as though he's never seen anything quite like a Sam before.  Sam becomes steadily more and more freaked out by the uncharacteristic silence and nearly cries with relief when the hospital comes into view.

He rolls the Impala to a gentle halt, as close to the emergency doors as possible without actually blocking off the ambulance area. The holiday seems to have affected the hospital resources or maybe it’s under-funded, but either way there’s no sign of a gurney, a wheelchair or any orderlies. Thankfully Dean allows himself to be lifted out of the car and rouses enough to stumble agreeably alongside Sam, head drooping and legs folding every which way as he is manhandled into the emergency room.

The ER is busy and the triage nurse over-worked and somewhat dismissive. With Sam’s attention diverted in her direction, Dean’s tenuous grip on consciousness slips and he leans more heavily into his brother.

Sam turns to him quickly, his tone softening immediately. “C’mon buddy, stay with me… just stay awake for me okay?”

Dean obeys the instincts of a lifetime and tries to respond, a pained expression crossing his face as he struggles to keep his footing.

The triage nurse points at the row of plastic chairs. “I’m sorry, sir. You’ll have to wait your turn.”

“My brother is seriously ill! He needs medical attention now!” Sam’s voice rises, desperation darkening his cheekbones. 

“Sir! I must ask you to keep your voice down, or I shall have to call security!”

Despite the strong grip around his waist, Dean sways. He gives Sam an apologetic little smile and vomits. No fuss, barely any sound, just a flood of bright red running out of his open mouth and spilling down his chin onto his shirts. He sighs wearily, his eyes roll up and he sags into Sam’s chest, nearly taking them both to the floor.

There is a sudden flurry of activity after that; minutes later Dean is wheeled rapidly away on a gurney. Sam steps around the triage nurse and follows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. Extra special thanks for kudos and comments, you keep the muse alive!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter...

Dean is in surgery.

A rapid array of tests have revealed a blood clot in his liver. Sam is informed that it’s being removed by venoplasty or possibly angioplasty. His brain has had a small meltdown since they arrived at the emergency entrance and he has to struggle to understand the fine detail once he absorbs the fact that the problem is treatable and that they seem to have caught it in time, if the surgery goes well of course, because there’s always an ‘if’. Dean can then look forward to an intense course of clot-busting drugs.

For now there is nothing Sam can do but wait, although he does take the opportunity to beat himself up mentally about all the symptoms he saw and failed to put together. Admittedly there have been other things going on; it’s not as though they were just taking a casual road trip, but when he stops to think about it, he knew there was something seriously wrong the moment he had to stand over Dean, when his brother was failing to get up in that run-down bar. It makes him feel nauseous to think the bar fight was probably the cause of the whole thing. One hard fist in just the wrong place, a little bleed and the passage of time. Much more time and his brother would be dead. Simple as that.

Sam continues to berate himself and paces around in the claustrophobic waiting room until he feels dizzy. Finally the surgery is announced a success. It appears that Dean is now sedated and on various drips and when Sam considers his brother’s underlying exhaustion and the effect of the sedation, he decides Dean will be out of it for some time. It’s now the early hours of the morning and it seems an appropriate time for the prompt disposal of a couple of corpses.

He heads back to the road works at speed, taking advantage of the deserted highway. It doesn’t seem anywhere near as far as when Dean was slowly sinking into unconsciousness at his side and Sam was desperately hoping the hospital was around the next bend.

He stops by the section of concrete pipe. The wind has picked up and almost tugs the door out of his grasp when he gets out of the Impala. A distant rumble and a white flicker on the horizon alert him to the fact that a storm is moving in. He needs to do some salting and burning before a deluge hits or he finds himself in the middle of nature’s bad ass electrical fireworks display.

He hauls the tarpaulin out and drags it up and into the car. He’s still wired, but even so the corpses seem twice the weight they did before and he’s panting by the time he slams the door shut. He shines the flashlight quickly into the pipe, to make sure he hasn’t left any clues behind, like a detached head for instance, and beats a hasty retreat to the Impala as the first huge drop of rain splashes onto the warm dirt.

The bodies are already giving off a rank odor so Sam winds the window part way down, letting the warm wind blow in, bringing with it the metallic tang of electricity and the smell of rain on hot rock. The raindrops are faster now, streaking their way down the dusty windshield as Sam pulls off. He hopes the storm is moving more slowly than he is, so he has time to do some clever burning before he gets washed out.

A few miles on, on some random dead end side road, he pulls over to dig a trench and throws a pile of loose rock in the bottom. Lots of dry scrub goes in, then a large amount of accelerant, the bodies, salt and more accelerant and scrub. The flames leap high and wild in the warm wind; they fight off the first drops of water easily and the rain is reduced to hissing steam around the edges of the fire pit. The forked tongue of the lightning licks at the nearby high ground and Sam hurriedly piles on another stack of slightly damp brush, reassured by the fact that it smolders only briefly before the dry interior catches light.

By the time the heavy curtain of rain arrives, he has skewered the corners of the tarp with sharp sticks and raised it over the pit. It flaps and twists but holds back the worst of the rain until the bodies are just part of the glowing mass beneath. Eventually it collapses and falls into the pit, sealing in the flame and heat with its damp weight. Sam considers the situation for a moment and then heaps dirt and salt back on top. There’s enough heat in the rock below to finish the job. He brushes his wet hair wearily away from his eyes and wonders if he’s just done the first ever clambake, Winchester style?

Thunder cracks close by and the wind throws Sam’s hair back over his face and sticks it down with rain. He realizes he’s been gone much too long, so he takes a last look at the broken earth over the pit and gets the Impala back on the road without delay.

He drives through the storm, the Impala shuddering with the impact of the gusts of wind, wipers squealing across the glass. Dawn spreads a grey, yellow stain over the horizon as the wind picks up some stray black feathers from a recent roadkill and sweeps them across the hood of the Impala and up over the windshield like soft fingers of doom. Sam hopes they’re not an omen.

.

Dean dreams of long, black feathers flying up and over the Impala. He awakens with a startle to the dry hiss of the oxygen cannula. Sam is looming over him, his wild, wet hair back lit by the weird green glow of the storm clouds rolling heavily past the hospital window. A deep rumble rattles the glass in the frame and, still half asleep, Dean wonders if the Ghost Riders in the Sky now travel in muscle cars rather than on horseback.

He fumbles awkwardly for the oxygen cannula, but Sam's large hand captures his wrist and pulls it gently away.

"Leave it, Dean." His brother’s tired face folds itself into wrinkles of relief and discontent. "The nurse will be back soon. Let her sort it out."

Dean blinks at him fuzzily for a moment or two and moves his dry tongue around his mouth. It actually makes a noise like cardboard against wood and he gags a bit. Sam catches on immediately and pops an ice chip in between his lips and Dean sucks gratefully for a couple of minutes until he gets enough lubrication to speak.

“What’s up with me?”

Sam explains and Dean looks a little surprised and a little guilty as though perhaps he knew there’d been something different about the punch that laid him out in the bar. Sam brings him up to speed on the kids and the corpses and sort of rambles on for a bit until his brother’s gruff voice interrupts him.

“You okay, Sammy?”

Sam stops then and runs his hands through his damp hair, shoving it away from his face. He eyes Dean wearily. “Yeah,” he says slowly. “Just tired. Tired of this…” he waves a hand at the tubes and monitors. “And tired… need a week’s sleep kinda tired.”

Dean bites his lip and looks even guiltier and is off guard enough to look a little upset too. Of course, Sam didn’t meant it that way because Dean shouldn’t feel guilty about being hurt, or about being hurt and pushing on to save some kids and Sam himself, even though he must’ve felt like crap.

“Hey.” Sam reaches out and pats his brother on the thigh. “Don’t look like that man. I didn’t mean it that way. I’m just beat and I should’ve seen something was up with you, something more than bad beer.”

The awkward moment is interrupted by a massive clap of thunder outside the window; blue lightning lights up the room with a ghostly light and turns their world momentarily into a poster image.

“Some storm, huh? You sure those bodies are good and crispy?”

So Sam explains about the monster clambake and Dean thinks that’s kind of funny and wonders if they might refine the technique for wet weather salt’n’burns. But no amount of light-hearted talk can delay the inevitable question for ever.

“When can I get outta here?”

“When you can sit upright in the Impala without drooling all over my shoulder.”

Dean opens his mouth in denial and shuts it again. He goes a bit pink as he remembers, clears his throat in a manly way and mutters something to the effect that he’d have had room to lie down if Sam wasn’t such a big sasquatch.

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“When you get out of here, can we just… just stop for a few days?”

Dean looks him over for a couple of seconds with a serious and big brotherly look on his face and then shrugs easily. “I could use a few days R&R.” His eyes light up suddenly. “D’you know, we’re only about a day and a half away from the world’s largest cow skull!”

Sam chuckles fondly and shakes his head in disbelief as he flops into a visitor’s chair. “Jeez, Dean. Sure, we’ll go see the world’s largest cow skull, just so long as we stay somewhere with decent air conditioning.” He settles back and lets his long legs sprawl across the floor. “So, are you going to tell me about that explosion?”

Dean looks a bit furtive and quickly shoves another ice chip in his mouth. He casts a glance at Sam’s raised eyebrow and shuts his eyes with an air of finality. “Kinda tired right now, Sam.”

And with that, Sam has to be content.

.

The end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for taking the time to read. Love to know what you thought of it.
> 
> Those who left kudos and comments... you’re absolutely awesome, thank you : )
> 
> Dean has been experiencing symptoms of hepatic vein thrombosis (HVT) - an obstruction in the veins of the liver caused by a blood clot. He’s lucky, some people have almost no symptoms until it’s far too late. Untreated, this can eventually lead to liver failure.

**Author's Note:**

> All SPN characters borrowed for entertainment purposes only. No profit. Ownership and all rights remain with Kripke, CW channel and anyone else with official ownership.


End file.
